


The One About the Hermit Crabs

by Drvivc (Fight_Surrender)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: 90's AU, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Hermit Crabs!, M/M, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Pining Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, They're suite mates, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-01-12 19:24:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18453047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fight_Surrender/pseuds/Drvivc
Summary: It was a routine room inspection. Typically, I just look around for contraband. A quick scan for illegal cooking devices, alcohol stashes and the like. “This room is a shit show, Snow. Are you hiding a body in here?"Simon and Baz are suitemates in their uni dorm. Just to knock up the tension a bit, Baz is also the RA and he's got a job to do.What will Simon do to convince Baz to let him keep his illegal but beloved pets?





	1. The Room Inspection

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a prompt from my dear and talented friend @artescapri. Eternal and heartfelt thanks to @artescapri, @penpanoply & @mudblood428 for their encouragement, support, beta reading and epic grammar wrangling. I love you all. 
> 
> This dorm room scene is inspired by my dorm room in the early 90's (back when mom-jeans were just jeans! I know, I'm old. What can I say?). We literally did have a trail on the floor through all the paper and junk. We were total slobs, and the RA was my suitemate. I hear the dorm has been remodeled now and is super fancy, but back then it was a shit-hole. Fast forward to around 2010, I got my kids some hermit crabs. They ignored them, and I became obsessed with them. They had the fanciest hermit crab digs in town. I had a 20 gallon tank filled with dirt & plants & climbing stuff. I fussed over those things so much! 
> 
> Here's to shitty dorm rooms, non-traditional pets, and (Perhaps?) new romance?

**Baz:**

 

It was a routine room inspection. Typically, I just look around for contraband. A quick scan for illegal cooking devices, alcohol stashes and the like. Simon’s room is a deplorable disaster as usual. The only clean area is a path on the floor from the bed, to the bathroom, to the wardrobe, to the door. Every other horizontal surface in this room is strewn with clothes, paper and books. The walls are a nonsensical hodgepodge of band posters, concert flyers, newspaper comics, and photos. He lives like an animal.

Simon is splayed across his bed, pencil behind his ear, eating salt and vinegar crisps (Are those mine? WTF?). He glances up from his physics book, “To what do I owe this honor Mr. Baz?”

I’m pretty sure he’s being sincere with the “Mr. Baz” shit. Not a trace of snark or sarcasm. I’m his age for snake’s sake, I just happen to the RA of this god-forsaken shithole dorm. It’s not like I’m the queen.

“This room is a shit show, Snow. Are you hiding a body in here?”

Did Simon’s eyes just widen a little?

In the ensuing silence, there’s a pop, like a pebble thrown at glass.

“What the fuck was that?” I ask, scanning the room.

Simon sits up in his bed, eyes definitely wide. “What was what?” He stammers.

Well, this just got interesting.

I hear a brief crunching sound, like gravel shifting.

The color drains from Simons face, turning his skin a lighter shade of tawny, his moles lonely sentinels in stark contrast to the surrounding skin. It’s lovely, really, like tiny archipelagos in a sunset sea.

Focus, Baz.

I shoot Simon my finest glare, “What. The fuck. Are you hiding, Snow?”

Now that I think about it, does this room smell _fishy_ ? I had initially attributed the scent to masculine funk, but this has a marine edge to it. Fishy _and_ gamey.

Snow has jumped to his feet and is in my face now. Well, technically three inches below my face, but somehow his presence seems to inhabit the space. He just fills it with sheer will, and I want to melt.

My heart races as I take a deep breath, I fucking hate conflict in general. Conflict with Simon is particularly difficult because it’s simultaneously edged with, well, an overwhelming desire to knock him down and snog the living daylights out of him.

“Don’t you need a warrant to search this room?” Simon exclaims.

I exhale. Slowly. I growl (probably a little louder than necessary) “No, you imbecile. This is uni, not the real world. I’m the RA here, and I get to do what I wish.” I stretch to my full height and glower down at Simon for full threatening effect. Truth be told, I just want to run away and let him be, but I have a job to do.

I reluctantly turn my back to Snow and search for the source of the noise.

“Can we just talk about this, Baz?” Simon changes tack, imploring now.

I ignore him and eye a particularly large pile of clothes on the dresser.

He grabs my shoulder as I make my way to the pile.

“Baz, STOP.”

I whirl on him, my shoulder on fire where he touched it. Fuck this. “The university has a strict 'no animals in the dorm rooms' policy. It is my responsibility to enforce such policy, so back the fuck off and let me do my job.”

I sweep aside the pile of clothes to reveal an aquarium, over half filled with dirt, with a glass lid. The surface of the dirt consists of a lovingly arranged warren of sticks and plants, a wide, shallow bowl of clean water and a bowl of what looks like dead shrimp and egg shells.

“Dammit Snow, what _is_ this, a terrarium?”

Simon’s cheeks redden. He looks at his feet.

“It’s a crabitat.” He replies.

“A _what_?”

Simon shoves his hands into his pockets, looks up at the popcorn ceiling, and takes a breath.

“Crabitat. For Calvin and Hobbes.” He exhales.

“Are you even speaking English?” I ask

He looks at me now. His eyes are blue. The color of a clear spring sky after a week of rain. A brilliant blue that I want to dive into, get lost in. Fuck. Are those tears?

“Calvin and Hobbes are my pet hermit crabs. I’ve had them for months, and I love them. They’re actually really cool, and for fucks sake Baz, can you please just pretend you never saw this?”

I think he’s actually about to cry. He looks adorable right now. Full stop.

I cock my eyebrow. “What’s in it for me?” (What am I even doing right now? I’m resorting to bribery. What’s next? A life of crime?)

Simon brightens. “I’ll help you with your calculus homework. I see you working on it all the time in the library. You don’t seem to enjoy it.”

“Nobody enjoys calculus, you dolt.”

“I do.”

I curve my lips up and down and scrunch my eyebrows at him incredulously. “There’s something wrong with you.”

I allow myself to think, yes! Fuck yes! Teach me math. In your bed. Or mine (fewer crumbs). All night, until we fall asleep together and I wake up in your arms and smooth the ruffled curls off your forehead. Then you kiss me with your moles and your morning breath and call me darling. We skip class and snog all day, until our lips are sore. Rinse and repeat.

I do _not_ allow myself to think about Simon noticing me at the library. Intuiting that I absolutely abhor calculus and anything having to do with math. Hours spent, trying to make sense of it all. What did he notice? Why did he notice?

“I know.” Simon interrupts my reverie. He smiles. “I love math. It just makes sense. It’s constant and predictable.” He looks away, “Unlike pretty much everything else in my life.”

I’m not sure what he’s talking about. He’s the golden child, here on a full academic scholarship. Internet famous for pulling a bunch of kids out of a fire at a care home years ago. He’s charming, devastatingly handsome, kind, and everybody loves him. Including me (in case you haven’t figured that out yet).

Fuck, what’s that look? He seems…sad? Thoughtful? This conversation is quickly leaning towards relational. The last thing I need is to talk about his _feelings_.

Time to change the subject.

“Aren’t crabs insects? You can’t love an insect, Snow. Get rid of them.”

Simon lowers his eyebrows, “They’re arthropods. They’re funny and cute, and I _do_ love them, so you can fuck right off.”

Then he takes my hands. Why is he taking my hands? I should punch him. (I won’t punch him. I won’t hurt him.)

He’s looking into my eyes again. I can’t escape his piercing, devastating gaze. I lean away. Can he see my pulse racing? I’ll do anything for him. Anything.

“Baz. You’re right, they’re just glorified bugs. They’re not causing any trouble.” His voice is like butter and honey, “Nobody will notice them.” He actually smirks at me, “It’s not like they’re going to shit on the rug or chew up the furniture.”

“It’s against the rules.” I respond. Weakly.

“Please, Baz.”

Puppy dog eyes.

Fuck.

“Fine. Keep your disgusting creatures, but you _will_ help me with my calculus homework.”

“Deal." Simon proclaims.

He’s _still_ holding my hands. Has he forgotten that he’s holding my hands? Has he forgotten what it _means_ to hold hands?  He smells like bacon and intensity and looks like something I want to lick. Everywhere. I’m going to let him keep his ridiculous comic strip hermit crabs and he’s going to tutor me in math.

Crawley, what have I gotten myself into?

 

 

  
  
  


 

  



	2. Matters of Arithmetic, Love, and Naked Hermit Crabs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Baz grow closer over quadratic equations and hermit crab husbandry.

**Baz**

We’re in his bed. Well, _on_ his bed. Complete with Spiderman sheets (He says it’s ironic, I think it’s moronic. But he is a moron. So.)

We have been studying at the library for weeks. As much as it kills me to admit it, he’s actually an excellent tutor. Typically, my brain goes into a sort of spiral lock down when I get bogged down in a difficult math problem. Simon has this ability and patience to break it down and methodically untangle the knots so that things make perfect sense. He’s so fucking kind, it literally takes everything I’ve got not to take him by the neck and snog him senseless on the library table.

He’s actually a little handsy, now that I’ve gotten to know him. Always ready with a pat on the back or a warm grasp on my arm when I’m getting frustrated. You’d think he came  from a big, affectionate family. He didn’t, but the guy definitely has some personal space issues. 

Not that I’m complaining. I love it, actually. I may even occasionally take a bit too long to catch on to a difficult topic on purpose, just for the reward of his touch. Because I’m weak. Because I’m a constant disappointment to myself. 

During these weeks we’ve graduated from sticking to calculus-only topics to getting-to-know-you banter. I’ve learned that Simon is an orphan. He was a resident of the care home where he became a hero. He happened to be coming home late from work just as a fire was breaking out. Without giving a thought to himself, he rushed in to save the other kids. He just managed to get everyone out before the gas lines blew, sending furniture and debris flying for blocks. It was a miracle everyone was ok. He hated talking about this, and I may or may not have used hermit crab blackmail to drag the information out of him. He’s brave, and selfless, and clever and I’m not telling him any of that. 

I’ve shared a bit of my family life with him. Not that there’s much to tell. My father and I aren’t speaking at the moment, while I “rethink some of my life choices.” “Not speaking” also means “cutting me off financially,” which is why I have this abominable RA job.

There’s a hint of pity in the way Simon looks at me when I tell him this, which is simply intolerable. But there is _something_ else there as well-something more-which I refuse to think about. 

So, I suppose you could say we’re friends now. Well, I’m Simon’s friend. He’s the unrequited love of my life, and will remain so until the day I leave this dismal husk we call Earth. OK, I’m probably being a little dramatic. I’m in a mood. It’s finals week. Summer break is looming and my study time with Simon will come to a close. This is more upsetting than I would like it to be. 

Anyway, It was Simon’s idea to work in his room. 

“It’s more comfortable,” he said. “Plus I’ve got crisps.”

I opted not to mention that there is a vending machine in the library. For obvious reasons. 

So here we are, on his bed, working through quadratic equations. It’s a small bed, mind you. We’re sprawled out next to each other on our stomachs. I’m taller than Simon, but he’s thicker than me. I’m trying not to notice that his broad shoulders are pressing warmly against my lank ones. I’m trying to give him space, but somehow he keeps inhabiting mine. It’s driving me mad. Simon is radiating heat like a furnace and he smells like, well he smells like Axe Body Spray. Jesus.

“Baz.” Simon interrupts my mental analysis of his 8th grade scent. 

“Yes, Snow?” I reply, perhaps a little snappishly. It _is_ getting uncomfortably warm in here, but I’m not about to leave his proximity to turn down the thermostat. 

 _Is_ it uncomfortably warm in here? Simon looks cool as the proverbial cucumber.

Simon is up on his elbows, as he grabs a crisp from the bag and begins to chew thoughtfully. 

We have these moments from time to time, when Simon likes to wax poetic about something. I usually take this opportunity to remind him he’s an idiot. 

Ignoring my irritation, Simon reflects, “Pure mathematics is, in its way, the poetry of logical ideas.”

I lower my brows and look over at him, “What?”

“Einstein said it. Math is just, well. Predictable and true, isn’t it? You just open yourself up to the possibilities, know the basics and it will always make sense. If you let it, yeah?” He’s looking down at his textbook. His cheeks darken to a lovely shade of rose. 

“There’s something to be said about opening yourself up to the possibilities, you know?” Simon emphasizes softly, looking my way.

“What are you on about?” I quip. “Math as a metaphor for life? Only if you’re seeking an existence of hopeless mundanity.” I roll my eyes, “Math is bollocks.” 

Simon turns towards me, shifting even closer and dipping his face towards mine. I’m pointedly staring at my textbook, avoiding his eyes. We’re treading into uncertain territory. “What I’m saying is,” Simon murmurs, “sometimes you have to stop thinking and just let things happen.” 

My heart flips to my stomach. Is something happening here? What the fuck is happening? I hazard a glance at Simon, at his perfectly blue eyes that are boring into my soul. His breath smells of salt and vinegar. Surely I’m reading too much into this. I glimpse over his shoulder, because I’m a self-defeating train wreck. 

“What the fuck is that?” I may have shrieked. I clamber to my feet and over to the monstrosity inside Simon’s aquarium. 

“Shit,” Simon exclaims from behind me, “Calvin is out of his shell.” 

“Is it dead?” I ask, eyeing the limp, pink creature in the tank. 

“Nah,” says Simon, “ _He’s_ just molting. I’ll transfer him to the hospital tank.” He proceeds to move another pile of clothes to reveal a small aquarium, also filled with dirt, containing an assortment of shells. He then lovingly gathers the naked crab (it’s truly hideous), gently places it in the new tank, and spritzes it with water. 

He covers the aquarium with a faded black t-shirt, “Let’s give him a little privacy, and he’ll be right as rain, with a new shell home tomorrow.”

I’m standing right behind Simon and he turns around to face me. There’s a mad glint in his eye as he looks up at me. Is he smirking? 

He steps closer, into my space. “Are you going to turn me in, Mr. Pitch?” What is he doing with his voice? It’s lower, softer. Like velvet. 

“Well, you’ve proven to be an acceptable tutor.” My voice cracks like an adolescent. I clear my throat. “I,er, think I can let this slide.” I feel myself blushing a deep crimson. 

Simon rumbles a deep chuckle. I could happily listen to that sound for the rest of my life. He presses even closer and slides a hand around my waist. I think I am going to combust. His blue eyes meet my grey ones. This time I can’t look away. I can barely breathe. 

“Baz?” Simon murmurs. 

“Simon?” I manage to respond. 

“Could you please  _stop_ thinking for a minute and just kiss me?” 

I do. And it’s glorious.

I wonder, is there a rule against RA’s fraternizing with their students? 

I’ll think about that tomorrow. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks and love to my incredible squad of Wonder Women betas @tbazzsnow, @mudblood428, and @argylefetish . I can't do this without your friendship, love, and steadfast encouragement.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've made it to the end, THANK YOU! 
> 
> In case you were wondering, yes, I meant that end bit to say "Crawley" instead of "Crowley". I'm rereading "Good Omens" by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett in anticipation of the Netflix special and figured I'd toss in a reference.
> 
> Thanks again for reading my drabble. Feel free to say hi on Tumblr @fight-surrender.


End file.
